


Atrophy

by panchostokes (badwolfrun)



Series: All In [1]
Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: Angst, Gen, Humiliation, Nick Stokes Whump, Psychological Torture, Tetrodotoxin, Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2020-05-02 00:15:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19188076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badwolfrun/pseuds/panchostokes
Summary: A paralyzing agent, a trunk, a phone call, a closet...Nick Stokes has a entered a whole new realm of nightmares.





	1. Keep You

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to stick as close as I could to the reality of the effects of the toxin. Also, not meant to be explicitly shippy, but I will be making a separate Nick/Greg follow up!

It was a sight that would be ingrained into his memory until the end of time. A disturbing sight, filed with those crime scenes that made his skin turn green, that drove a knife through his heart, that caused restless and sleepless nights.

The hairs on the back of his neck were standing up, goosebumps rising all over his skin. The house was quiet, eerily quiet, just like the phone call that had led him here. All of the lights were off, he fumbled for his flashlight out of his jacket pocket, shone its rays around the hall. He saw one door that was just slightly cracked, a sliver of light underneath the wood. He hugged the wall adjacent to the doorway, gently opening the door, his view expanding as the door creaked open.

It looked like an ordinary bedroom, a queen sized bed, a dresser, a louvered closet door. Women’s clothing, hanging from the drawers of the dresser. The bed was neatly made. He opened the closet door, and nearly jumped out of his skin.

No clothing, no objects occupied the closet. There were holes where racking had once been installed. But the closet wasn’t completely empty.

A man was chained to the wall, sweating profusely. His shirt was off, there was an open wound, connecting the dots between two scars, dried blood coated on his chest. His head was hanging downward, but his eyes--widened, fearful eyes were staring upward, at Greg. His body was motionless...though he could see veins protruding through his skin...his muscles seemed uncomfortably contracted. Short, panicked bursts of inhales and exhales through gritted teeth. He could see water pooling in his eyes, dripping to the floor beneath him.

The obvious signs of torture were not what disturbed Greg the most about the sight of this man, but rather, knowing his identity.

It was Nick Stokes.

* * *

 

Nick stifled a yawn as he rolled his shoulders, an effort, to release his body from the bout of stiffness from an extended period of processing evidence. He was eager to finish up the scene, drop his evidence off at the lab, and go out to breakfast with Greg.

“You almost done, Mr. Stokes?” Officer Marsh asked. An echoed desire for a change of scenery. The officer was a rookie, not used to Nick’s thoroughness in processing scenes, and was perhaps succumbing to boredom.

“Getting there, man. You know, you can step outside if you need to, I’ll be done in a few minutes.”

“No can do, sir, Captain’s orders—‘All eyes on the CSIs.’ In fact, rumor has it that you’re the reason for that rule.”

Nick chuckled and shook his head as he initialed another evidence tag. He had collected a lot of evidence, probably more than he needed, but the victims house was full of clutter, and he didn’t want to overlook anything.

An anonymous 911 caller had informed the Las Vegas Police Department of suspicious activity in the victim’s house. David’s preliminary cause of death was unknown, the only visible signs of trauma came from a large bruise and needle mark on the victim’s arm. Nothing to suggest a drug overdose, no needle left at the scene. Some furniture had been knocked over, signs of a struggle were apparent, leading them to believe there was some foul play involved. Door to door interviews indicated that the victim had entered his house alongside an unknown woman, and she had not been confirmed to have left the house, at least, not through the front door.

The house had been cleared, no signs of the woman. Brass told Nick he would follow up with the family and employer of the vic, and left Nick to finish processing the scene.

Thirty minutes later, and Nick was ready to leave the scene. He had just taken his gloves off, placed his tools into his kit and vest.

“Alright man, just gotta bag this up then we can go,” Nick told the officer, his back was to him, still focused on the evidence laid on the victim’s bed. “Trust me, I’m itching to go, too.”

“What, got a hot date or something?”

“Something like that,” Nick smiled. “Why, you askin’?”

Marsh responded with a sharp gasp, followed by a pained groan. Nick spun around, only just able to register the situation—A woman, dressed in black, one arm wrapped around the officer, a syringe in his neck. Her other arm, raised up, aiming something—a gun—at Nick.

His fingers had just lifted the gun out of his holster, when she pulled the trigger. His heart stopped, his body caught in a sharp inhale. He felt a small prick in his neck, he used his free hand to move towards it. His surprisingly dry, bloodless fingers felt heavy, as he took out the object that he was shot with. A dart, thankfully, instead of a bullet. He had expected for it to be the end, yet he was still standing, despite the odds.

He groaned as the needle left his skin and he brought the dart to his eyes. The dart’s contents were empty. He didn’t have time to do any guesswork as to what he was injected with.

“Drop the gun, put your hands in the air!” Nick barked at the woman, but she didn’t listen. She loosened her grip on the cop, who had gone limp in her hold, and let him fall to the ground. She took a step towards Nick, holding her own gun steady on him.

“Stay back!” he cried out, gritting his teeth. “Drop the gun, I don’t wanna soot—”

Nick froze, his lips were tingling, his teeth had caught his tongue, but it didn’t hurt, like it normally did when he bit his tongue by accident. His fingers began to tremble and tingle, the room was tilting sideways.

“Wha’...was in...tha’ dar...t?” he spoke slowly, trying to remained focused as the woman got closer, and closer…

The air was getting thin, it was getting harder to breathe. His legs wobbled, his head throbbed. The room was expanding, shrinking, expanding, shrinking. He stumbled backward, his feet were also tingling. His whole body shook, feeling oddly light. He lost his balance, dropped the gun, and fell face first onto the floor.

“Youuuu...bish…” he groaned. He tried to lift himself up, but the woman pushed him back down effortlessly with her foot on his back. The tingling sensation was spreading up his arms, his legs, his face. The woman stepped on his hand, which was trying to reach for the gun. He only knew it happened because he was looking at it, otherwise, he couldn’t feel the impact of her shoe forcibly pressing on the back of his hand, twisting it back and forth as if she were extinguishing a cigarette.

“I love when they put up a fight,” she remarked as she kicked his gun a few feet away, out of his reach. He strained his eyes to look behind him, his head was a heavy stone that wouldn’t quite budge. His eyes, widened in shock at the loss in sensation, stared up at the woman as she addressed him.

“Tetrodotoxin, to answer your question. Typically takes a bit longer to kick in, I guess you two are special...Then again, your friend got the higher dose.”

The woman left his field of view, he heard zipping and rustling, perhaps she was going through his bag of evidence?

Saliva pooled in the side of his mouth, which was gaped open in an effort to entice oxygen into his body—breathing was very difficult, a sensation he’ll never quite be used to. A stream of drool dipped into the crevice of his lips, out onto the floor.

His eyes drifted to Officer Marsh, who was also stuck to the floor, something was pouring out of his mouth, too, but it wasn’t just drool. A stench, permeated the air that tickled his nose, it smelled like early mornings spent by the toilet during his college days, of homeless drunks wandering the streets that tourists stay away from, of crime scenes that churned his stomach so badly he needed to get some air.

Marsh was vomiting, but if he was going through a similar experience that Nick was, he was probably unable to breathe properly. The distant sounds confirmed Nick’s theory, and his body began to convulse violently, more vomit spilling out of his mouth, but some of it dropping back in. The man had shut his eyes tight, in an effort to concentrate on stopping the seizure, but both he and Nick knew that wasn’t possible without assistance.

“Elllllllp….im!” Nick choked out. Even if the woman heard him, Nick had a feeling she wouldn’t have, anyway.

Moments passed, and gurgles bubbled up the Officer’s throat, until they came to a halt, and his body stopped moving.

“Aw, looks like your friend couldn’t make it after all,” the woman lamented in a mocking tone. Nick’s vision flooded with hot tears, his own body began to jerk upward. For a moment, he thought that perhaps, he was about to meet the same fate, until he caught the sob that was hitched in his throat.

He could sense something next to him, though he couldn’t see what it was, until his head was lifted upwards, the woman’s hand was grasping his hair. She was crouching down next to him, he briefly wondered how long she had been there, watching him. She twisted his head to meet her’s. He blinked, or at least tried to, but the woman assisted where his body failed in wiping the tears from his eyes, clearing up his vision. His body shuddered as her fingers lingered on his cheek, after she cleaned both eyes up. A twisted smile was plastered on her face, an evil gleam sparkles in her eyes. Her nostrils flared, here eyebrows narrowed.

“You know what, though? I think I’m going to keep you.”

She dropped his head back to the floor, and stood back up. He finally saw the source of the zipping noise—a backpack, which she now had on her back, presumably filled with the evidence he collected. She began to hum as she left his field of vision, which was blurring again as tears once again flooded his eyes. Whether it was from the pain in his limbs that he couldn’t feel, the grief over the fallen officer, the utter humiliation of being rendered so helpless, or a combination of all three, he couldn’t tell. All he knew was that he wanted to cry, or scream, or just _something_ to indicate that this situation wasn’t right. An appeal to this seemingly psychopathic individual who regarded him as an object to be “kept.”

But no sound came out of his throat, no movement in his body. The most he could do was look at the corpse of a man who didn’t deserve any of what was given to him.

The humming didn’t cover up the sounds of dragging, Marsh’s body started to slide backwards against the floor, stopping in intervals until he too, left Nick’s field of vision.

Nick’s heart spiked up when the humming stopped—all noise, seemed to stop, for what was in reality, a minute or two, but to Nick, felt like an eternity. An eternity in which he asked the question, how many more cops would die because of him?

There was a rhythmic _thump-thump-thump-thump-thump,_ followed by a distant _THUNK_.

It was then that Nick remembered, they were on the second floor of the house.

“Oopsie!” the woman called out, before bursting into giggles. Dread spread through Nick’s body as her humming resumed, increasing in volume as he saw her feet stepping towards him. He was hyper aware of each footstep, pounding in his head like she was a giantess, shaking the floor beneath him. His body was trapped in a state of fight-or-flight, but he could do neither. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought that he had been turned to stone.

Lightweight stone, he clarified to himself, as his body began to seemingly float, twisting around. His turn, to be dragged out of the room, but his journey came to a halt, as his vest got caught on something.

“Tsk tsk tsk.”

His body was rolled onto his back, guided by the woman’s foot against his side.

“‘Stokes…’” the woman read off of his name tag. “Well, Mr. Stokes, I’m afraid your troublesome vest is going to have to go. We’ll take care of the rest later.”

She unzipped the vest, bending his arms in an atypical way through the sleeve holes that would normally be uncomfortable, but he couldn’t feel it anyway. He looked down at his feet, a feeling of long forgotten deja vu, as he tried to will them into movement, but they remained still. Instead, the woman’s hands gripped his ankles, and continued to drag him, he slid completely off of his uniform.

She was careless in her dragging, allowing his body to bump against more obstacles, his arms re-positioned as they slid against surfaces. One arm was above his head, by the time they got to the top of the stairs.

He shut his eyes, grimly thinking of that moment, on a roller coaster ride, right before that drop. That rush of adrenaline, the thrill of the fall, a sense of danger, though there was none to be found.

This was not a roller coaster, but was definitely a ride he wanted to get off of.

To his surprise, there was no more suspense, no ceremonious taunt from the woman. He was at the top of the stairs one moment, and then he wasn’t. A tumble downwards, his body flailing and twisting into a knot that he wouldn’t feel for quite some time, was broken by the body of Officer Marsh, who was stuck on the landing of the stairs. A nauseating feeling rose up his body, but not from the fact he had just been tossed down the stairs and landed as helplessly as a rag doll, but rather from a horrific realization staring him right in the face.

In his fall or perhaps maybe during the dragging, Officer Marsh’s head had been opened, blood was trickling down his face. His bottom lip was trembling, his eyes fluttering open and shut. Nick could just barely see the man’s chest rise and fall.

_Officer Marsh was still alive._

A sound, intended by Nick to be a one-worded refusal of the reality sprawled out in front of him, translates into a strangled retching sound.

A shuttering click, followed by a flash, tore Nick’s eyes away as he strained to see the source in the periphery of his sight.

“Gotta document the scene, _Nicky_ ,” A low, sultry voice—at first, he thought it was Catherine. He could just barely see a familiar blur of black and white, resembling one of the CSI vests, but as the blur got closer and clearer, he discovered that it was _his_ vest. She was holding his camera, too.

“‘ _Nick_ Stokes, Assistant Grave Shift Supervisor,’” the woman read off of his ID badge. “Well, since we’re on a first name basis now, you can call me Veronica.”

Even if he could speak, Nick remained silent out of defiance. Veronica stepped on top of Nick, leaning down to Marsh’s body, obtaining his keys.

She resumed her humming as she stepped over Nick and completed walking down the stairs. A few moments later, he heard a door opening, a car starting, car doors opening and closing. All the while, he stared into the face of Officer Marsh, tried to choke out words of comfort, but he wouldn’t know what to say if he could. He thought of Sara, and the experience she had, with a victim that died as she held her hand.

Nick was wondering if he would be able to survive long enough, if someone would come hold his hand as he finally faded away, succumbing to the effects of the toxin that he was trying to remember the effects of. His thoughts were disrupted, as his body was lifted by his armpits, and drifted backwards once more, away from Marsh.

His body was dragged outside the house, through the door that was still open, under the crime scene tape. His body was dropped onto the pavement, next to a car, it looked like the victim’s car that Nick recalled seeing parked in the garage. Veronica must have switched the cars, the alternating flashing lights of the police car was gone.

He had never wanted a crowd of bystanders at a crime scene more in his life. But at these early hours of the morning, the excitement of gossip was outweighed by the desire for sleep. No nosy neighbors to watch as his body was lifted and thrown into the trunk of the small car.

Unlike the cluttered house, the victim had kept his car clean, no contents in the trunk. That fact did nothing to ease Nick’s nerves as his body was contorted into what he knew to be an uncomfortable position, though the unpleasantness wasn’t registering in his mind. He stared at his fingers, contracted, trembling. The lid wasn’t closed yet and he already wanted to claw his way out.

“Now then, got my pictures, got my evidence, got my toy...Oh, I forgot to bury the body. How silly of me! I’ll be right back, you behave.”

She closed the lid to the trunk, and Nick was plunged into a world of darkness, strangely illuminated by a green glow.


	2. Still Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wasn't in the box.

He wasn’t in the box. He wasn’t in the box.  _ He wasn’t in the box.  _

Maybe if he repeated it over and over in his mind, it would become true, and he wouldn’t be surrounded by glass walls, holding back packed dirt. Dirt that was so tightly packed, that it seemed like it wasn’t dirt at all, but a solid wall of vaguely textured color. Was the box always this small, not long enough to hold his entire body without his joints bending? He’d been in there for so long, his whole body was numb. 

The light was defunct, he shot it hours ago, didn’t he? Wait, where was his gun, where were the bullets? Did that vile woman finish off the poor, unfortunate officer with his gun? She had taken everything else from him, after all. 

He couldn’t hear the soft whir of the fan, nor could he see one. Was he really in the box longer than the time it took for the battery to die? Did his consciousness somehow survive the suffocation, sentencing him to an eternal life in his premature grave? Were the last five years of his life some sort of fantasy, a vision to his oxygen-starved brain of what could have been?

The green glow from the plastic cylinders that weren’t actually next to him, was reverberating to the rhythm of his erratic breathing. The exchange of oxygen and carbon dioxide was a miracle, a gift that he was extremely grateful for. Too grateful--his body was working overtime, his heartbeat was just as irregular, trying to compensate for the robbery of control...over  _ everything _ . 

He knew it didn’t help, to look at his watch for the passage of time. Not that he could, anyway, as the wrist that bore the watch was stuck somewhere between his right ankle and left knee. He wanted to know how long he had been trapped in this hell, alternating between the past, of the box  _ he definitely wasn’t in _ , and the present, of the car trunk, void of any light. 

Part of him hoped that maybe Veronica had forgotten about him, that she fled the scene with the evidence, and maybe he would be found before his body began to decompose. 

Another part of him knew that she wasn’t finished with him yet, a thought, which made the contents of his stomach churn. 

And a third, final part of him questioned if this was some sick exercise in exposure therapy. He read about an FBI case, a few years ago, in which a counselor turned serial killer killed his victims by exposing them to their worst fears. No wonder he was hesitant in going. 

She seemed smart enough, sadistic enough, to slip through the cracks in his defenses, in the same way this latest therapist seemed to. Forcing him to revisit painful memories, when he just wants to find a way to move past them. Not that she even knew that about him...or did she? Was she another stalker? Did she know he was going to be at that scene, specifically targeted him? Why else would she want to “keep” him?

He needed to resist, defy her in any small way he could. Easier said than done, given that the only body part he had any control over at the moment, was his eyes. But the paralysis wouldn’t last forever. A few hours, at most, unless he faded into unconsciousness, or a coma. 

He needed to stay awake. Should be a piece of cake. He’d done it before, in the box.

But, he  _ wasn’t in the box.  _

There was no sound inside the trunk itself, the car’s engine was off. Distant sounds, seemingly miles away yet right outside the trunk, were telling Nick that time was passing, with or without him. Other cars were starting, neighborly greetings, birds chirping. 

Birds. He liked birds. If he was lucky, maybe he’d get to see one again before everything came to an end. There was a lecture on birds, that he wanted to attend. Greg had told him about it.

Greg...he should be at the diner with him, eating breakfast. He could hear his phone buzz, it must have been him, asking Nick where he was. 

Scraping, he also heard the sound of metal scraping pavement. It made the hairs on the back of his head stand up, goosebumps on his arm. At least...he assumed that it did.

A deep rooted instinct, a mentor’s voice, told him to assume nothing.

The scraping came to a screeching halt. He wondered if it would wake up the immediate next door neighbors, if by some sheer luck they would call the authorities. 

_ CLUNK-CLUNK-CLUNK. _

Nick’s heart jumped out of his body, got stuck somewhere in his throat. Shrill laughter, as the trunk was opened, and he was nearly blinded by daylight.

“Ah, we’re all good now,” Veronica announced to her captive as her laughter died out. She was holding the camera in one hand, and something small, metal in the other. Handcuffs, he identified. “I picked up these for later.”

She tossed the handcuffs onto his face, they slid off, landing right in front of his mouth. It was then that she seemed to study Nick’s face, which he was trying desperately hard to not have a reaction to. He tried to avert his eyes, counting the fibers of the trunk’s interior, thinking about how maybe his body would leave a trace of fiber, leading to the car’s identity.

“Did you know…” Veronica started, as if she were about to tell Nick the most interesting fact in the world. She left him in suspense, picking up another object in her free hand. Something long, wooden. She poked his body with it, playfully giggling as his body  _ didn’t  _ squirm. He would have tried not to, if his body had any sense of movement.

She removed the wooden handle away from him, spun it around to reveal the other end, which was a metal spade. She moved the shovel towards his head. 

“That poor police officer…” she continued, in a mockingly sad tone, poking the dirt-coated, rusty tip into his cheek with each word. A mark was left, that he wouldn’t be able to feel for quite some time. Using the shovel, she then lifted his head off of the trunk’s surface, bouncing it a little as she held it in place. His neck would hurt later, from the strain. 

She fiddled with the camera, Nick could hear soft noises, which he recognized from when he would zoom in on a shot. When she seemed satisfied, she looked back at Nick, her finger on the button.

“...Was still alive when I buried him?” 

Click. Flash.

He wasn’t in the box, but he was somewhere worse _.  _

* * *

 

Greg Sanders was looking out the window, waiting for a car that would never come. His fingers on one hand were absentmindedly stirring his third cup of coffee. The other hand was rubbing the numbers on his phone, pressing in Nick’s number, again and again and again.

He knew Nick was never late without reason. He also knew that Nick would have at least texted him, telling him he was on his way. 

He was starting to get worried.

He left a voicemail on the third call.

“Hey...Just...wondering if you were still coming? I can wait, as long as you need me to....I know how things can get busy, Cath said you were on a solo...Just...call me back.”

After sending one final text with similar dialogue, he threw his phone to the counter, dug his jittery hands between his arms, leaning against the table. 

“You ready to order, hun?” the waitress asked. “Or you still waiting on your friend?”

The sympathy in her voice indicated to Greg that she’s seen this happen before, maybe even had it happen to herself. It didn’t make it feel any better.

“Yeah, uh...I’ll have the sunrise special, and I know what he’ll--”

Greg stopped mid-sentence as his phone buzzed. He eagerly picked it up, staring at the message long enough for the waitress to get the hint. 

_ Sorry man, can’t make it. Something came up. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An update? So soon? I know, right? But I’m riding a huge wave of inspiration ;)


	3. Connect the Dots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nick's hope of getting out of this continues to drain, as Greg's anxiety isn't eased at all.

“Is that a pickle in your pocket, or this is all getting a little too exciting for you?” 

Nick was only vaguely aware as Veronica pulled his vibrating phone from his pocket. She held it up to her ear, her lips curling upward as she listened to a voicemail that Nick was unaware he had. 

“Aw, your poor friend’s wondering where you are...don’t worry, I won’t keep him in suspense,” Veronica cooed, and typed a message on Nick’s phone. 

Frozen in shock, Nick didn’t hear a word Veronica said to him. His eyes were transfixed on the space of the trunk, his breathing was increasing in pace and depth. Long, blood curdling screams rang through one ear and out the other. Screams that both were, and weren’t his. 

Veronica closed his phone and tucked it back into his pocket. One final buzz taunted him, somehow, it was louder than the rest. 

“We might need that again later. It’s time to go home.”

She pushed the shovel forward, his check rubbed against the wood of the handle. Some of the wood was chipped, it would leave marks on his cheek. She had to turn the shovel slightly, to fit the shovel awkwardly against Nick’s motionless body. 

Motionless, except for his eyes, which betrayed the emotions he was desperately trying to mask.

“Oh, _you_ _poor_ _thing_ , don’t cry,” Her voice was sickeningly sweet, mocking him. “What’s the matter, are you scared of the dark?”

A string of giggles intertwined into the screams, and he was plunged into darkness once more. 

A jolt sputtered the trunk into a gentle vibration, the purr of the engine, smothered music didn’t quite get past the screaming in his ears. His body hiccuped as they hit a few bumps on his journey, but he paid no attention to that. 

He was trapped, but not just in the trunk. Crushed under the weight of guilt, that he was chosen for Veronica’s...well, whatever she intended for him, while Officer Marsh was sentenced to the cruelest death. 

A death, Nick could only hope was fast and painless, but knew otherwise. 

Fast, sure. The pressure of the earth would have crushed Marsh’s chest. Dirt would have filled his lungs. Death by asphyxiation. But painless? Not so much. 

He was suffocated, but not from the limited space nor awkward position of his body—his cheek was smashed against the handle of tool that sealed Marsh’s face. 

Instead, questions bombarded him, he could hardly breathe, let alone answer them. Why didn’t Marsh just go outside? What was this psychopath’s deal? Who was this person? Where were they going? 

Why didn’t Nick call for help?

He could have, before the paralysis set in. He  _ should _ have. 

Instead of cowboying up, drawing his weapon and running head first into danger, he should have called for help. 

He should have gone to the back instead of Officer Clark. 

He should be the one that’s dead and buried. 

He was diminished. It was clear that Veronica saw him nothing more than a plaything, instead of a human being. It stung him to his core, if she wanted him dead he’d be dead by now. She definitely had something else in store for him, something beyond death. 

And that scared him more than the dark ever could.

Scared him so much, that it seemed to trigger a reaction in him. His body began to convulse, a fire seized his entire body, twisting and elevating him. His hyperventilating worsened. Something rose up his throat, it felt like hot acid. 

This was it, maybe his luck changed after all. He was going down the same path that Officer Marsh went through. Maybe Veronica would think he was dead, bury him. He survived once, he could survive it again. 

Vomit spilled out of his mouth, onto his shirt and onto the trunk floor, but he didn’t drift off like Marsh did. He even closed his eyes in an attempt to do so, but was cursed with consciousness. 

The car came to a halt, Nick heard a car door open and slam. Silence followed for a few minutes, until he heard soft knocks above him, a flood of light followed. Still daylight. In his dread-filled train of thought, he didn’t bother keeping track of how long the drive was. 

“Hmm, guess you really are scared of the dark,” mock concern laced in her voice. Her eyes narrowed, staring at his trembling hands, the mess on his shirt. “Or...something else?”

He was unsure if he was successful in throwing daggers at her through his eyes. 

“Now, let’s go clean up this mess you’ve made.”

A smile curled up her lips, she grabbed at his arms, pulling him out of the trunk. She began to drag him, her arms lifting him under his armpits. He was able to see the street, it seemed like a suburban area. No cars in the street, nor in the driveways across from them.

Hope shot through his veins, as a jogger slowed down in front of the house. His body was nearly dropped as Veronica removed one arm to wave at the jogger.

_ Help! _

He tried to say something, but his vocal chords still wouldn’t work. A few gurgles, raspy breaths was all that escaped his lips.

“Too much to drink last night!” Veronica called out, her voice booming over everything. To Nick’s dismay, the jogger smiled and nodded sympathetically. 

_ No...Help! _

The jogger resumed their pace, and left Nick’s field of view. Veronica continued to move towards the house, into the garage.

Before they entered the house, Nick got his wish, he got to see another bird… it was motionless, sprawled out on the pavement of the driveway. Dead.

The house was dark, void of light save for the natural light of a few open windows. Nick was dragged through the narrow hallway, there seemed to be three doors on each side of the hallway, no stairways apparent. An odd layout for a house, but fitting for what he presumed was more of a torture dungeon than a house, anyway. 

She brought him into a room that appeared to be some sort of living room, a few bookcases, a fireplace, a coffee table and a couch. There was a television above the fireplace, and also a small stereo to the right of the fireplace. To the left was one single window, with the blinds nearly shut--there was only enough light for him to identify objects in the room, but he couldn’t see any fine details.

She dropped him at the foot of the couch, moved the coffee table out of her way. Nick’s breathing had not yet steadied itself, he could see his body twitch, and wondered if he was heading towards another seizure.

Veronica picked him up and placed him on the couch, his head leaning backward against the top, his arms laid out at his sides. 

“You stay right there, I’m going to get something to wash that pretty face,” Veronica purred. 

She left the room, and Nick tried and failed to will his body into movement. He wondered how many hours it had been since he was first dosed, the longer it was, the more chance of surviving the toxin he had. At some point, the drug had to wear off, if it didn’t kill him first. 

Veronica entered the room silently, sending Nick’s body though another startled state as she popped back in front of him, a washcloth in hand, and camera in other.

“Almost forgot…”

Click. Flash.

Without saying another word, she smeared the washcloth over Nick’s mouth. She held it in place for a few seconds, a dangerous look in her eyes, waiting for signs of a struggle for breath, before she moved it down his chin...and his neck.

“There, now let’s get that shirt off…”

She took Nick’s knife out of his vest, held it in front of his eyes. She touched it to his chin, drawing a thin line down his neck, before applying more pressure to cut through the fabric of his shirt. She cut it in half, stopped right before his pants. She removed the shirt completely, her eyes seemed to widen in some gleeful joy, as if she were unwrapping a Christmas present.

“What’s this?”

She enunciated her words by pointing the tip of her knife into the two scars he received from the restaurant shooting. 

“My, my, what happened here,  _ Nicky?” _

She licked her lips, moved her body closer. She dug the tip of the knife into one scar, and drew the knife across his skin to the other. 

“In connecting the dots, I figure...you’ve been shot?” 

At the awkward angle his head was positioned, he could just see the blood trickle down from his two scars, and from the line she cut between them. But he couldn’t  _ feel  _ it.

Yet.

Click. Flash.

She tossed the knife aside, moved her fingers towards his chest, smearing the blood all over. Her other hand removed the camera from around her neck, she started to take off the vest. 

_ You have a washcloth right there, you stupid bitch _ . He bitterly thought, though he had a feeling she was well aware of that fact. 

Another buzz from his pocket distracted Veronica from...whatever the hell she was doing to him. She removed the phone from his pocket, checking the message. She cocked her head at him.

“Oh dear, a gal named Sara is getting worried now, too. Don’t tell me that’s your girlfriend, do I need to be jealous?” 

She leaned in closer, towards his ear.    


“Because you’re  _ mine. _ ”

Nick gulped as she giggled, leaning back away from him and texting something on his phone in response. She threw the phone onto the couch, near the knife. If he could use his arm, it was just within arm’s reach

“What else do you have in these pockets?” She wondered out loud. She dug through his other pockets, removing his wallet and keys. She took the money from his wallet, just because she could. She jangled the keys in front of his face. 

“That reminds me...I have a few more errands to run, so I’m afraid I have to cut playtime short for now.” 

Veronica stood up, tall over Nick, who was still slumped on the couch, still unable to move. She walked around the couch, Nick thought she had left the room, but she soon appeared again, upside down, in front of his face. 

“ _ Don’t move,”  _ she told him in a suddenly serious, commanding tone.

She poked his nose playfully, and left the room.

 

* * *

Something wasn’t right. 

After receiving the text that “something came up,” Greg had replied back with “is everything okay?” 

He never got a response. 

Nick wasn’t one to not at least reply with an “I’ll explain later” or something to indicate that everything was in fact, okay. And if it wasn’t, he would have heard about it by now, right?

He didn’t want to freak anyone out yet, more than he was already freaking out at the possibility that something terrible had happened to Nick, again. So he texted Sara.

_ Hey, have you heard from Nick?  _

Her response wasn’t a help at all.

_ No, why? _

In that moment, he realized that he should have texted Catherine instead. She was the supervisor, after all, so if Nick had to step out for a family emergency or something, she’d be the first to know. 

Maybe it was because they all shared an office together, the three of them. Maybe it was because Nick was being more open with them, about what was going on in not just his work, but his personal life. It had shocked Greg the most, for Nick to become so...open with them, even after all their years together, Nick had always tried to maintain some distance between his work and personal life. 

A flashback to nine years ago, when Nick had taken Greg by the shoulder, telling him to stop invading his privacy, told Greg that he should just leave it. Maybe Nick had a bad day, a bad case, and felt like he wasn’t good company. Wouldn’t be the first time--he bailed on Greg on his own birthday two years back, after working a case that drove him to tears. 

Then again, that hadn’t stopped Greg from making an effort to extend his hand anyway. 

_ I’m sure it’s nothing, he just bailed on breakfast this morning. It happens.  _

He sighed, hoping that would appease Sara’s mind though something still didn’t sit right with his. He tossed his phone aside, closed his eyes, an effort to fall asleep. 

He was just starting to drift off into a dream of being back in the lab, of a tearful Nick walking away, echoing previous words that had been said to him, when he heard his phone ring. He barely had time to register the caller ID before he answered immediately.

“Nick?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand this chapter is the reason "Scared of the Dark" is on my playlist for this fic, which I plan on sharing once the fic is complete! (and I might make a moodboard, too)


	4. Call for Help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A phone call gone wrong, and doubts sprinkled in the air.

It was a weird feeling, almost like deja vu, forced to stay motionless while the tool of his survival was easily obtainable. His cell phone was just within his reach. It was so close, that if he could just extend his fingers, he’d be able to grab it. She probably put it there on purpose, to taunt him, knowing that a call for help was just beyond his reach. She left the knife there, too. A choice, perhaps? Call for help or fight back.

But she told him not to move. Maybe it was a test--a test of obedience. She told him not to move, and if he did, she would come up behind him and punish him into submission.

He wasn’t even entirely sure if she left the room. He didn’t even know exactly how much time had passed since she took his keys and left. It must have been hours, daylight was waning, an orange glow was starting to fill the room. Sunset, illuminating warm rays onto his body, which was oddly drenched in sweat. How could he be so sweaty, when he’d been glued to the couch?

His vision was hyper focused, centered on the phone. Twitching fingers just barely scraping the hard plastic. He tried to keep his mind focused on movement, instead of wandering off thinking about the nine circles of hell, and which one he might have been trapped in.

The twitches turned to jumps, his body was thrown into another fit. His mind seemed to short circuit, if he didn’t know better, he could almost _feel_ the synapses firing too fast. He kept trying to concentrate on the phone, tried to use the seizure to his advantage.

And with great luck, as the seizure slowed to a stop, his hand fell right on top of the phone, and his fingers started to press buttons, under his intention.

He wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry. He wanted to _scream._

The paralysis was finally wearing off. And everything _hurt_.

The fall from the stairs, the cramp in his smashed hand--which was now trying to gently press the buttons of the phone--the wounds from the shovel and knife, locked his body into a pseudo-paralysis of pain. He bit his lip down, fought the urge to just move all at once. Screaming wouldn’t help. He needed to _concentrate_.

He didn’t bother reading what Veronica sent to his friends, he dialed the first number in his history. He tried to pick the phone up but his broken hand wouldn’t close around it. He heard a couple of rings, and then could _just_ hear Greg’s voice on the other end.

“Nick?”

Something rose up in his throat, a word, perhaps, but it got caught before passing his lips. If any noise came out of his body, it was strangled, quiet. No way Greg could have heard it, from the position his body was in.

He tried to shake his torso, maybe he could lean his body, purposefully fall next to the phone. A spike of pain in his chest prevented him from completing his roll.

“Nick, is everything okay? What’s going on?”

“Gr….reg,” he croaked, but he was certain that his voice didn’t quite reach the microphone.

“Nick! Hello?”

He probably thought it was some sort of misdial.

“Okay, I’m gonna hang up…”

Flat tone. Nick hit redial as if his life depended on it.

“ _Nick?_ ”

He tried again, to roll his body over. Pain be damned, at this point, he needed to just burst through the wall holding him back. His body was just about to fall forward, a scream dancing on his tongue, just before his lips, when something grabbed his hair and pulled him backwards. Five sharp nails, digging into his skull.

“ _I told you not to move_.” A cold whisper called the water to his eyes. A shiver spread though his body, freezing his heart.

His head was still held back, the grip tightened as Veronica stepped over the couch, straddled Nick’s lap. Her eyebrows sharp, narrowed, she looked _furious_. She effortlessly snatched the phone from his hands, looked at the screen, before she brought it to her lips.

A smile crept across her face as her anger seemed to evaporate, and she began to sway her body to and fro...and moan.

“Oh...oh...ohhhhh.”

If Nick’s eyes were any wider, they would pop out of their sockets. Terror, as he realized what she was doing. Shame, as he realized what Greg must be thinking at this very moment. He tried to avoid eye contact, tried to focus on the knife that he was trying to grab.

“ _Harder, Nick…_ ” she moaned. She tugged the hairs of his head harder with each word, leaned in close with the phone separating their mouths. She breathed, heavily as her eyes stared into Nick’s, relishing the look on his face. Nick could feel his fingers brush the blade of the knife, Then, she stopped. No sound for nearly a minute, and then...

_“Come play with us, Greg.”_

She shut the phone closed, and threw it against the wall. It shattered completely, Nick could imagine that it was sprawled out on the ground, wires exposed, motionless. Another dead bird.

He held back a scream, shoving it down his throat as his fingers gripped the handle of the knife. His anger overpowered his pain, the knife began to rise, shaking, towards Veronica.

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” she warned him, but he didn’t listen. He continued to raise the knife, and she used her free hand to slap his face in the opposite direction. The burn on his cheek tingled, a piece of wood from the shovel must have been stuck in his cheek, because he felt a particularly painful prick on his skin as the palm of her hand contacted with it. A pained cry followed her fingers back towards his hand, she grabbed his wrist and twisted it.

Puppeteering his arm, she bent the knife towards his exposed neck, the blade just barely scraping his skin. His other arm rose up, tried to grab at _her_ hair, but it fell onto her arm, which was still extended, holding his head in place. He tried to apply as much pressure as he could, digging his nails into her skin--he could see her face tightened in response to the pressure, but she didn’t react to it.

“Now, you’re going to apologize, for not listening to me.”

“Fuck...you…” he panted, tears rolling down his cheeks from all the pain.

Of course, _now_ he could talk.

“ _Wrong answer!”_ she screamed at him. He barely had time to register that the knife was removed from his neck when she moved it down to his chest, his scars, and drove the knife into the one closest to his heart.

A blood curdling scream finally escaped his body, his chest rose up, his legs extended out. All of the pain, moved to his chest, to the tip of the knife. His eyes shut tight, he didn’t see the wide smile on Veronica’s face as his scream faded to a sob.

She removed the knife, throwing it aside. She grabbed his face, shaking him out of his cage of pain.

“Say it!” she barked at him.

He didn’t respond to her, his lips trembling. He prayed that Greg didn’t fall for it, that he had traced his phone call, that he was on his way to get him. They had to realize he was gone by now, right?

Another slap to his face, this time her nails scratched his cheek. The pain was nothing in comparison to his previous injuries, at this point. She grabbed his neck, squeezing it.

“Say it, or you’ll get another dose, and you won’t be able to say _anything, ever again_.”

“I’m not...fraid…” he chuckled darkly, weakly squirming his body, trying to escape her hold. His eyes shone with determination, he wasn’t going to give into her. A fire in his eyes, as he continued to struggle against her.

“What was that?

“Not...ahhhhh-fraid...to die!” he shouted at her, though the extra effort cost him another scream, which he could tell she enjoyed.

“Oh, _I know that,_ ” she replied as if it were the most obvious statement in the world. “But I bet Greg is.”

Everything shattered. The fire in his eyes was extinguished by her words. His body fell limp, his arms fell back to his sides. His lower lip trembled, hiccuping sobs rose upwards through his body. Veronica smiled as she felt the feeble movement under the hand, wrapped around his neck. Control was all hers, she had finally broken him.

“I-I’m...sorry,” he cried. She removed her hand from the back of his head, but kept her grip on his neck. She cooed at him, brushing a hand through his hair, patting the side of his face. She wiped away the tears on his cheeks, but more just replaced them.

“I know you’re not...but you will be.”

A prick, in the side of his neck, a sharp groan in pain. She was using a syringe this time, just like she used with Marsh.

As the toxin was injected once again into his body, a dawn of realization hit him like a ton of bricks. She didn’t send Greg away, she was baiting him.

“No...no, no, no, please!” he whined, as he started to squirm again. She began to shush him. “Don’t...please, _don’t_ …”

He tried to stifle his cries as the pain started to fade away, as he struggled to breath as she tightened her grip around his neck. A familiar, uncomfortable tingling spreading from his extremities to the rest of his body.

Soon, his body was stone again, and he was struggling for speech and air.

“Now, it’s time for your punishment.”

 

* * *

Something that wasn’t quite nausea swirled in Greg’s stomach as he pulled up to the house. Concern, maybe? Disgust? Disappointment?

The two calls he received were...disturbing, to say the least, and _so_ not Nick Stokes.

Maybe his phone was stolen? Or he lost it and some crazy citizen of Las Vegas decided to play a prank?

Either way, his nerves weren’t eased by another phone call, shortly after, in which Catherine told him it was all hands on deck, at the last scene Nick was processing. He had arrived at the same time as Catherine and Ray, Brass was standing in front of an open garage, notebook in hand, his face shrouded in a shadow. There was a patrol car stored in the garage.

“Sara’s on her way,” Catherine addressed the team. “What do we know so far, Jim?”

“Marsh didn’t show up to shift change, last call in was this house. Some blood on the stairs, which definitely wasn’t there when…”

The detective cleared his throat, perturbed.

“Other than that, no signs of a struggle, no body. No sign of Stokes, his car’s gone. Neighbor said they spotted an individual leaving the house, wearing a vest, they didn’t get a good visual description, though.”

“Nick didn’t report back to the lab, he normally,” Catherine started, taking a deep breath before she continued “...normally checks in before the end of shift, if he’s not pulling a double. He hasn’t been answering my calls.”

“He was supposed to meet me for breakfast,” Greg chimed in. “I got a few calls, from him, actually.”

“What did he say?” Ray asked.

“Nothing, I thought he misdialed. There was a...a woman's voice, though. She, uh...They sounded like they were having a good time.” He cleared his throat, and thankfully, they all got the hint without further details.

“That’s not like him,” Catherine sighed.

“So Nick left the scene—“ Ray started.

“ _Presumably_.” Catherine clarified

“—but what happened to the cop?”

“House was just given the all clear when you guys rolled up.”

“Hey, boss, you might want to come see this!” Officer Mitchell called from the open door in the garage leading to the backyard.

The first thing Greg noticed was the pile of freshly dug up earth, which was being dug up by an officer.

“Not again,” Brass muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“ _Again?”_  Ray asked.

“Long story,” Catherine told him.

Sara arrived as Marsh’s body was uncovered and she was filled in to the situation.

“Nick got a tracker installed in his car, after it was stolen a few years back. Have we tried tracking the location?”

“Consider it done,” Brass replied, talking on a phone. His eyes were red, heavy, he walked back to the front of the house.

The CSIs stood in silence for a minute, wheels turning in each of their heads.

Nick wouldn’t have just left the scene, not without the officer. He certainly wouldn’t have left collected evidence in his car, especially not after what happened five years ago.

They spread out, combing through the yard and house for evidence. Without knowing what the scene was like beforehand, it was hard to know what was part of the initial homicide, and what was part of Marsh’s murder. David Phillips tried to help them as much as he could, pointing out what he recalled when he released the scene, but outside of the blood on the stairs, everything was seemingly the way it was before.

Everything, except for a small black fiber, found on the floor in the bedroom. Greg held it up to his own vest, it was made of similar material.

“Find something?” Sara asked him, having completed processing the stairs.

“Yeah, a fiber, maybe from Nick’s vest? It was caught here--”

Greg gestured to the floor, to the ghost of Nick Stokes, who was looking underneath the bed...or crawling? Or maybe…

“Maybe he was dragged?” Greg proposed. “He wouldn’t have just...left like that, let alone bail on me like that without a reason, call me while he was…”

“Or go to a strip club?”

Greg shook his head at Sara, appalled at the suggestion.

“Brass said Nick’s car was found outside of the Strip Club on Tropicana. They’re bringing it back to the garage now.”

It was all playing out like some sort of weird fever dream. Greg had to pinch himself to ensure he wasn’t dreaming. The evidence was implying many things, one of which was that Nick intentionally left a crime scene to go to a strip club, and possibly...more than that. There was a puzzle here, that needed to be solved, and Nick Stokes was the missing piece.


	5. Dig Him Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not what you think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have three warnings for this chapter:  
> 1) It is the longest of all the chapters so far (3.6k words)  
> 2) There are certain things that are implied, that seem like it's leading to one thing, but it is most certainly not.  
> 3) It will also seem like there is a character death, but I assure you, there is NOT.

Something beyond nausea was swirling in the pit of Nick’s stomach. As Veronica dragged Nick back through the hallway which seemed to extend for miles, doors opening and closing on both sides, showing terrible visions of torture chambers, he couldn’t help but wonder what Veronica had intended for Greg.

Maybe they didn’t know what had happened yet. Maybe Greg just hung up on Veronica, as soon as she started moaning. Maybe Marsh was still buried somewhere in the earth, before his time. Maybe nobody would realize he’s gone until the start of his next shift--what time was it, anyway?

“You know, it’s a shame you’ve gone all quiet,” Veronica mused as she brought him through a door. “I really liked the sound of your screams.”

Helpless, Nick stared up at her, his head rolled backwards as she dragged him by the arms. His more...injured shoulder was most certainly dislocated by now from the rough pulling, his back was probably covered in carpet burn. Whatever expression that was on his face seemed to only fuel her fire more, a devilish smile spread across the woman’s face.

She dragged him into a room which was also as barren as the living room. A bedroom, containing only a bed, a dresser, a closet. No windows in sight, the only source of light was a ceiling light.

Veronica hauled him onto the bed, Nick noticed she struggled a bit, as she did when getting him in an out of the trunk. If he could only _move,_ he could have tried to overpower her.

But instead, he was on top of her bed, and she pulled out a pair of handcuffs. She tied one end to the bedpost, walked to her drawer and pulled out another pair for the other post.

“It’s not what you think,” she told him, as if she knew the horrific images that were conjured in his head, of what his “punishment” might entail, on a bed, with handcuffs involved.

It didn’t ease his anxiety regardless.

She walked away from the bed, towards the closet. Next to the closet was a long chain that seemed to come out of the wall.

“For your punishment...I was thinking,” she opened the closet doors, then turned her head towards him. “I’ll make you watch.”

Nick was dizzy, the room was spinning, his thoughts were bouncing all over the place. His train of thought had jumped from deadly premonitions of Greg Sanders, to one of painful memories, that he had tried so hard to repress.

_Watch? Watch what?_

She reached into the closet, Nick couldn’t quite see what was inside--but heard the jangle of metal, like a chain. He heard another sound, as if the chain was being pulled, and then retracted. Almost like a pulley system.

“I’m afraid you’re not going to get the _best_ seat in the house, however. It _is_ a punishment, and I remember how...uncomfortable the trunk made you.”

_Oh no._

“Although, maybe it wasn’t just the dark, maybe it was...the  _tight space_ of the trunk? C’mon, you can tell me…”

She walked over to the bed, stood over him, relishing the silence before bursting into a fit of giggles. She playfully tapped his cheek, he would wince away if he could.

“Oh, that’s right, _you can’t._ ”

As if he needed the reminder.

She grabbed his arms again, pulling him off of the bed. He was dragged once more, this time towards the open closet. She kept his arms raised above his head, he heard the connection of metal around his wrists. She stepped on top of him, just like she did at the crime scene, only this time, a little less carefully, stomping down on him with such pressure to his gut that he couldn’t feel.

She stepped out of the closet, began to pull the chain, and Nick was lifted upwards, his assumption was correct, there was a pulley system at play.

He was lifted up so that his feet were a few inches off of the ground. His head fell forward, his chin was touching his chest, and he had a close-up view of his bleeding scars. He briefly wondered if he would bleed out before any death due to the toxin’s effects.

He directed his eyes towards Veronica, who was smiling at him, holding a camera—oh, how he wanted to just punch that smile off of her face. The whole idea of this...ownership, this torture was bad enough, but the possibility that she had done this before, given how the house was laid out, how the chains were installed...brought Nick to a whole new level of questioning if he had truly fallen into hell, or if the reality was that demons were real, and he was face to face with one of them.

“Behave,” she ordered. “Or I _will_ kill him.”

Click. Flash.

She closed the closet doors, leaving Nick in the dark, but it wasn’t completely dark. Beams of light shone through the slits of the louvered closet door.

The closet was not as bad as the trunk, all things considered. At least he had more room to breathe, he wouldn’t run out of air, he could still see the room, though his view was limited. The confinement was terrible, and he did feel a hint of his claustrophobia, but it could have been worse.

And then, it got worse.

Veronica turned off the room’s light, Nick heard the sound of a door closing. The final nail in the coffin. What he was once able to identify as a bedroom, became another dark tomb, that he couldn’t even scrape his nails against, in a futile effort to escape. He was trapped in a claustrophobic void, an existential stasis, wondering if it was minutes or hours that passed as all the voices in his head kept him company...voices of people he loved, of people he hated...of people he _failed_.

He failed his parents. Left his home, all because he wanted to escape from their shadow, escape from his childhood home--which never really felt like home, not after _that_ night. He left to “prove himself,” but what has he proven now, a broken man chained to a wall, a plaything of a twisted woman’s whim?

He failed Grissom, disappointed him--even if Grissom had specifically told him, on a foggy, groggy night spent in a hospital bed, that he _never did._

He failed Catherine. How could she still trust him to be her right hand man, when he can’t even process a crime scene without getting injured? When he can’t shoot an armed suspect without emptying his entire clip, because he’s scared--scared that if he doesn’t, the suspect will shoot him and he’ll fall to the ground again?

He failed his friends. Sara, Ray, Jim...Greg. What must they think of him, can’t even keep a promise to meet for breakfast, making false phone calls, unable to say a word of what he’s truly feeling? They don’t deserve him. They deserve someone greater…somebody who could be a good friend, to listen, someone smart enough to see the warning signs of danger before he walks face first into it.

Echoes of disappointments, failures, screamed at him through the void. Mistakes he’s made, people he couldn’t save, whose deaths he was directly responsible for--two men that he had even killed, himself, all because they would have killed him first. Final words of a serial killer, who deserved the swift hand of justice, though maybe Nick had swung a little too hard...

“ _Great men who are what I could never be…”_

He was no hero. No John Wayne. The Duke would take one to the shoulder and walk it off, like it was a mosquito bite. Mercilessly shoot down the bad buy, live to fight another day. He was brave in the face of danger.

“ _The pain doesn’t go away, the rage doesn’t go away_ . _So, come on, put your gun down, walk out of here, be a man_.”

Nick, on the other hand was a coward. A man who now flinches every time he hears a gunshot. A man who can’t seem to pull the trigger when it _really_ matters, when faced with the murderer of his partner, his best friend.

Maybe he deserved this punishment, after all.

His stomach churned, fearing that the worst was yet to come, as Veronica’s humming intruded upon his thoughts. He heard a dragging sound, a grunt, and then nothing. For seconds...or minutes...or hours?

With every blink, time seemed to get a little slower. He was finally nodding off, if he was lucky, perhaps he would fall asleep, better yet--maybe into a coma. Dreamless sleep.

“What’s taking him so long?” Veronica’s voice broke the silence, Nick was startled out of his doze. She turned the light on, her position in the room was not where Nick thought it would be, based on his perception of her voice in correlation to her body. She was in front of the mirror, brushing her hair, checking her face...she had seemed to be talking more to herself than to Nick.

Perhaps she had forgotten that he was in the closet? If it didn’t kill him, the drug would wear off soon...if he could just stay quiet, maybe he could slip out...

“Does Greg even care about you, Nick?”

_Guess not._

“I saw him, not too long ago. At the house. Digging. Everyone, in fact, was digging so...purposefully, like they were uncovering something they had buried there themselves.”

She turned toward the closet, stood right behind the horizontal prison bars. He always hated prisons.

He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, the closet door was open. He was suddenly near-sighted, everything past Veronica’s fuming frame was blurred, distorted. He needed his glasses, but didn’t need them to see the sharp nails as they slid across his cheek. His head lolled, falling back to his chest, his mouth gaped open.

“Hey! Wakey, wakey--this isn’t naptime!” Veronica snapped at him. She wiped off the drool that had landed on her hand onto his pants.

“Ssst………... _op_ …” he groaned in a thin, raspy voice. A sharp breath, held in, released at the syllable of his broken words. His jaw clenched, his unsteady breathing thundered in his ears.

“You’re so cute when you think you still have a chance.”

He blinked, there was music playing, bubbly, poppy music. He never liked this song anyway, it never really applied to him, and the application of it to his situation made him grind his teeth. Veronica was dancing, lip syncing, occasionally looking to the closet, _winking_.

He blinked, and the door was closed again, Veronica was on the bed, blowing a bubble from her lips, kicking her legs on the edge of the bed as she swayed to the beat of the song.

He blinked, and he wondered if he had opened his eyes at all--he was in the void again. She was nowhere to be found, but heard her vile giggles--his eyes scanned the dark space of the closet anxiously, wondering if maybe she was in there with him.

He blinked, and she was in front of the closet, a deadly, hateful expression on her face. The sound of chains grinding, he began to fall. His body spasmed, an involuntary response to a threat he was helpless against. His feeble struggle made her giggle.

He blinked, and she was at the other end of the bedroom, behind the bed, the closet doors were wide open. She was smiling at Nick, widely, holding a finger to her lips. She started to crouch down, disappeared behind the bed. The music was beginning to fade.

He blinked, the door was closed, the light was on. The music was gone, there was an eerie silence...that was broken by the sound of a door creaking open.

A flicker of light, danced onto the bed, the ceiling, the walls.

 _Steady breathing_ , Nick told himself. The tension, built up within the last few minutes--was it really minutes, or was it hours? Or days? Or _years?_ \--was bound to reach a boiling point, a climax. The suspense was tearing him apart, whatever Veronica was about to do to him, he wished she would just _do_ and get it over with.

The light crept onto the dresser, onto the mirror--it flashed onto the backboard of the bed frame, the silver of the handcuffs gleamed.

The light headed towards Nick, soon it was shining in his face, nearly blinding him.

_Enough with the damn light!_

More creaking, this time from the closet door, which was being opened...slowly…

 _Just get it over with you bitch_ …

The space in front of the closet was occupied by the shadow of a person, but it wasn’t Veronica--wasn't even a woman. A lean body figure, an outline of tousled hair. A flash of reflective white material on his chest. The light was lowered, something got caught in his throat, hitched his breathing, stopped his heart. The man standing right in front of him had a horrified expression on his face, his eyebrows curved in concern, his skin was a pale green.

It was Greg Sanders.

“Nick?” Greg asked in disbelief, lifting Nick’s head up with gentle fingers. Nick’s eyes remained locked on Greg, blinked, to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating.

_I’m just as shocked as you are, buddy._

Outwardly, Nick could only manage to sputter drool in response. But something seemed to transfer from Nick’s eyes to Greg, and understanding, of the true nature of the situation, and not the false one Veronica had tried to fool Greg into believing.

“We gotta get you out of here,” Greg gulped down, gently lowering Nick’s head down. He used one hand to dig into his pocket for his phone, stuck the flashlight into his vest with the other and began to fumble with one of the shackles on Nick’s wrist.

Nicks eyes wandered behind Greg, the woman who had crouched behind the bed was now rising, the same smile on her face, the finger still pressed to her lips. Veronica disappeared behind Greg’s body--but Nick could see a camera coming closer on the left, and a syringe on the right.

Nick fought against the confines of his body, his veins surging with fire, his eyes bulging just slightly out of their sockets. Greg had gotten one of the shackles open--Nick tried to aim his falling hand to fall onto Greg, to get his attention. Something rose within his throat, but wouldn’t leave the surface--Greg was unaware, holding the phone to his ear, was just about to spew out the details of the address--

_GET OUT, GREG!_

Greg groaned, dropped the phone, and fell towards Nick. His hand grabbed onto the top of Nick’s pants, released his grip as he fell to the floor.

Click. Flash.

Nick’s eyes dropped to the floor, staring at the unconscious CSI at his feet--his head was resting on Nick’s shoe. He wanted to kick at him, make him wake up. If there were any time for a seizure, it would be now. Tears were raining down onto Greg’s head, but that didn’t wake him up, either.

“You didn’t tell me your friend was such a stud...Although, given how quickly he fell to the floor, should I say, a dud?”

Shrill laughter pierced through Nick’s ears, his body vibrated with anger at the fact that he couldn’t do anything to help his friend. All he could do was _watch_.

Veronica dragged Greg away, towards the bed--she stopped as she reached the foot of the bed, looked up at him, to relish the look on Nick’s face. He thought she was about to pull him onto the bed when she kept going, behind the bed. Giggles, cooing, rustling sounds... _what the hell was she doing?_

Then, a hand flopped onto the bed. And the other. A head popped up--a blur of brown hair, followed by a torso, dressed in a black vest, a reflective strip of white. The torso fell onto the bed, and then a hand raised up, waving.

Veronica rose up behind the body, crawled onto the bed. She handcuffed the unconscious body to the bed, spread his body out. She straddled Greg’s lap, pulling out a marker and wrote on his face.

She fell backwards, somersaulted off of the bed. She pulled something out of her dresser, and spun around eagerly.

She lifted up a black blur, held it in front of herself--Nick hyper focused on the object, it was a gun.

“You know, I was never actually that good at playing darts,” she mused, pulling the trigger. No gunshot, but a swift _vhoom_.

A dart gun.

 _Thank god_.

“Aw,” she moaned. “I missed. I only got four darts left, better make them count...maybe I’ll get lucky, though.”

She described her misfire for him, because she knew he couldn’t quite see the dart hidden behind the man’s head. She lowered her arms, reloaded her weapon in between each shot.

She raised her arms again, seemed to aim with careful precision.

“When I caught you earlier, that was just sheer luck.”

Another miss, Nick saw it land above the man’s blurry head.

“Or...was it destiny?”

She dropped one arm, but it didn’t help her aim. The dart landed next to the man’s hand.

“I have to say, out of all the toys I’ve collected throughout the years…”

Another dart, between Greg’s chest and armpit. A pulse spread through Nick’s body--spiked at his heart. His limbs twitched, pins and needles pricking at the surface of his skin.

Veronica reloaded her gun, raised it up again, and then spun around to face Nick.

“You’re my favorite.”

She squeezed the trigger, but not before moving the gun back towards Greg--though her body was still facing Nick, her blurry face was still directed towards him.

Despite his distorted vision, the result of her last dart was crystal clear, but she decided to announce it anyway.

“Bulls-eye.”

A tremor shook the room, as the gun clattered to the floor. A violent laugh boomed through his ears. His already blurred vision stretched out, his face became a burning waterfall. Two separate blurs combined, dropped, one stood tall and he knew without knowing, what was going on. The sound of cloth dragged across carpet.

“Another broken toy, ready to be buried,” Veronica sighed glumly. “I was really hoping he would last longer…”

Lava rose up his throat, spilled out of his mouth. More lava poured out of a hole somewhere in his chest.

“Oh, what’s this? I think he’s still alive.”

His body jerked, hiccuped, a sound that was not human escaped his mouth.

“Hopefully he won’t fight as hard as Marsh did.”

Click. Flash.

He blinked, and he was left in the dark again.

* * *

One minute, he was at the scene of a terrible crime, and the next, he was in a world of darkness. He lifted his head up, immediately came into contact with something cold, hard.

He tried to sit up again, and couldn’t. He placed his hands in front of him, felt something inches above his head. He fumbled around for his flashlight, his vest was gone.

Luckily for Greg Sanders, he had put his flashlight in his pants pocket.

He turned the flashlight on, stared up at bed springs. He rolled himself out from underneath the bed, his head heavy. His hands clutched the comforter, he grunted, but didn’t quite hear himself, as the only thing he _could_ hear was hyperventilating mixed with sobs.

“Please, please, please, _please_ …” Over, and over, and over, and over.

“Nick?”

Greg waved his flashlight around the room, the hairs on the back of his head spiked upward, tingling. He saw a few darts on the bed, and a mess of flesh raised up beyond the bed’s surface.

He stood up, it was difficult--the room was tilted, hazy. He concentrated on the beam of his flashlight, focused on the hand that was still shackled to the wall, and another hand that was clawing at the metal binding it.

Nick was frantically trying to free himself, but he was too weak, his hand kept slipping, his nails scratched the metal so hard that they were bleeding. Gurgles and sobs filled the space between them, as Greg drew closer.

“Nick, hey--”

“He’s gone. He’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone...gone...Rehhhhhhhh….k-k-k-k-k…….killed.”

Nick’s speech had faded to a low whisper, but  it didn’t take an investigator to figure out what Nick was so distraught about. Greg’s heart twinged, he was talking about Warrick.

“Gruh…….Reg.”

Or not.

“Nick, it’s okay, I’m right here,” Greg whispered, gingerly removing Nick’s bleeding fingers from clawing at the shackle.

“NO!” Nick screamed, an earthquake spread through his body, startled Greg backwards. “No, please! I’ll behave! I’ll behave…”

“Nick, y-you’re scaring me--” Greg gulped, and Nick started sobbing again.

“I-I’m sorry... _I’ll behave_ _just please…_ ”

Greg wasted no time in undoing the shackle, avoiding as much contact with Nick as possible, until he was freed and fell to the ground, curled himself up in pain.

An arm reached up, grabbed Greg’s shirt, pulled him with such force that Greg nearly fell on top of Nick. He froze, unsure of how to react--he had only _heard_ such noises when they had rescued him five years ago, but this time, he had a front row view. Nick’s eyes were shut tight, lost in his own mind.

“DIG HIM UP!” Nick screamed. “Please _, dig him up.._.”

“Nick...look at me,” Greg told him, touching a hand to his cheek. His eyes began to flutter, his lips quivered. His nose sniffled, his breath caught itself. A trembling hand pressed Greg’s harder against his cheek. A spark in his eyes, a connection.

“I’m right here.”

Greg stared right into Nick’s eyes, a sound that almost resembled a laugh rose out of Nick’s body, before the crying stopped all together, and his eyes closed again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .......what have I done?  
> also...girls just wanna have fun ;)


	6. Lucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An old friend returns, to wake Nick from a terrible nightmare.

“Let’s begin at the beginning, Greg. How did you find the house?” 

Overexposed lighting, overly clean surfaces, beeps and shouts and screams. He would hate it--he once confided to his friend, that he hated hospitals. 

“Greg?” 

The poor guy, probably terrified enough as it is. Second time being in the hospital within months. 

“Greg, are you listening to me?”

The buzzing and bustling, the hovering, the constant pokes and prods and questions. It almost made _him_ claustrophobic.

“ _ Greg!”  _

A hand on his shoulder firmly pressed the fabric of Greg’s shirt. Not as firm as Nick’s grasp was, but enough to summon Greg Sanders back into his body. His fingers fumbled on the edges of his shirt, screams and cries reverberated in his head.

“Where did you go? Sara said you and her were in the garage, examining Nick’s car--”

“Car, right. Yeah, we, uh, we were processing Nick’s car. Nothing out of the ordinary, but we noticed his kit wasn’t there, nor any evidence from the scene. There was security cam footage from across the street that showed a woman exit Nick’s vehicle--well, presumably--and draw some cash from an ATM, then she got a cab and vanished. We had nothing, for a while, though I’m sure you know that. Then, somebody called my phone with a voice modulator, told me they had a lead but would only meet me in private--”

“Don’t tell me--”

“I was gonna call for backup, it’s just--”

“I expect something like this out of Nick, but you, Greg? Who knows what could have happened--”

“I found him, didn’t I?” Greg snapped. A look of shock blossomed on Catherine’s face. Greg’s face fell, this sudden outburst was out of character for him, but it was hard to shake off the rage towards the psycho that reduced Nick to the man he found in the closet. It was hard to shake off the shock, that something like this could happen to somebody so close to him. It was hard to think that Nick has been through so much in the last eleven years, that somehow he’s found the strength to hold on, when everything and everyone is telling them that he shouldn’t be alive.

Their attention moved from each other to the man on the other side of the glass, lying in a hospital bed, unconscious. Sara was sitting next to him, held his hand. Catherine sniffled, then walked into the room, Greg followed behind.

Greg stood at the foot of the bed, as Catherine pulled up a stool on the other side of the bed. Nick looked peaceful in his restful state, but Greg could still hear the man’s screams and sobs ring out in his mind, as his body was moved onto a stretcher. 

_ “It’s okay, Nick, they’re taking you to the hospital,”  _ Greg had told him, after making the mistake of taking his hand away from Nick’s. A connection, one that Greg would never fully understand Nick’s need for, severed. 

_ “No! No hospital! Mmm fine...Need to...find...Greg…” _

_ “I’m here, man, I’m right here.” _

_ “He’s buh-buried...need to...dig him up...Mahaha--arshhhhhhh too…” _

A sedative, Nick had screamed so loudly as the needle was pushed into his skin. Greg wondered if Nick had been shot with one of the darts found on the bed. As they brought Nick out of the house, Greg could only think about collecting a tox sample, to see what he had been drugged with, to cause a reaction to the sedative so violent he had nearly punched the poor paramedic.

“Ray processing the scene?” Sara asked in a hushed voice, not that Nick would be able to hear them anyway. 

“No, I got someone from swing--Ronnie Lake,” Catherine replied, her eyes on Nick.

“Good. Ronnie’s good.” Sara gulped down something, a light layer of tears glimmered in her eyes. Greg wanted to move to her, offer some comfort, but found his hands glued to the end of the hospital bed.

It was different, when Nick had gotten shot. They were all worried, sure, but when they found out he was awake, conscious, demanding pizza and cracking jokes, they knew that he was at least  _ somewhat  _ okay--they hadn’t heard about the details of the shooting right away, all they cared about was Nick, and even when they did, Nick had just jumped right back into work, seemed okay, seemed like his normal self. Maybe that’s why Greg had neglected Nick’s state of mind at the funeral explosion, elected to just help Nick get dressed into a spare change of clothes, get cleaned up, instead of goading him back to the hospital as Catherine had commanded.

Maybe it was selfish, to take that for granted, to not pay more attention, because what if Nick was indulging in the same reckless behavior that had nearly gotten him killed after Warrick was? He could have been triggered by the loss of another member of law enforcement--even if Officer Clark wasn’t part of their team, per se, Nick wore his heart on his sleeve, the guilt complex was apparent. What if he had walked headfirst into this situation? It was hard to tell if the signs of struggle in the bedroom were from the original crime scene, or from any sort of struggle Nick would have put up. They would have to wait for him to wake up to find out what really happened. 

“Willows? Catherine Willows?” 

A doctor entered the room, nudged Greg aside to pick up Nick’s chart. 

“We’ve already contacted Gil Grissom, the other emergency contact, but were told that you were here on site. I see you found the place all right.”

An attempt to lighten the mood, put a smile on their sullen faces. He must have good news, else, he’s trying to ease the pain of his news.

“Unfortunately, this isn’t our first rodeo,” Catherine told him. Nick would have laughed at that. 

“Well, you’ll be happy to hear that Nick’s going to be just fine. He’ll be sore for a few days, has a broken hand, and will be sporting a new scar on his chest, but it could have been much worse. After decontamination, there’s also no side-effects apparent from the tetrodotoxin, either. Most patients survive that, if they didn’t, uh,” The doctor coughed. Greg noticed how young he was, how green. “Succumb to the more harmful effects.”

“Tetrodotoxin, the paralyzing agent?” Sara asked in a hoarse voice. “Was he…?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to talk to him to find out, but with the high dosage he was given, it’s a miracle he’s even still here. If he was lucky, he wouldn’t have been fully lucid. In fact, I’m shocked he’s not in a coma, most patients usually fall into one, if they survive.”

Greg’s heart had stopped at the mere idea of Nick being fully aware of what was happening to him--with the nonsense he seemed to speak at the house, he hoped that perhaps it was some sort of fever dream, hallucination.

And then, he remembered the phone call.

“Doctor…” he cleared his throat, didn’t even want to consider the possibility, but the question had to be raised. “Was there any signs of...of seh…”

His voice cracked, trailed off before he could even finish the word. Catherine had removed her gaze from Nick to look at Greg with a widened gaze, a realization hit her like a ton of bricks.

“No.” The doctor responded, quickly, shortly. He didn’t seem too fond of the idea, either. “No, there weren’t in our examinations.”

The young doctor also cleared his throat, looked back to the chart.

“He’ll be staying overnight for observation, given a prescription for some painkillers, but he should be able to go home in no time.”

“Thank you, doctor,” Catherine muttered, her eyes falling back onto Nick.

The doctor left the room, and Greg resumed his watch over Nick, who still seemed to be asleep. 

“So...Grissom’s his emergency contact?” Greg asked with a small chuckle, breaking the silence. He became aware of the fact that Nick wouldn’t quite like being under the watch of so many eyes, removed his gaze to stare at the floor.

Sara chuckled back. A smile cracked on Catherine’s face.

“Yeah, guess so. Said he was gonna change it, after the restaurant shooting. Guess he didn’t think he’d need to, so soon.”

The resumed their shared silence, waiting. Waiting for Nick to flutter his eyes open, demand a pizza or a beer. Waiting for some sign that even though the doctor said he’d be able to go home soon, that truly, he  _ would  _ be able to go home soon. Waiting for an indication that he would be okay, he’d be back to normal. Waiting for Nick Stokes, the mountain of strength that he is, to wake from his slumber. 

They would be waiting for a while.

* * *

Lucky. If he had a nickel for every time he heard the phrase “he’s lucky to be alive,” he would be able to retire from the Las Vegas Crime Lab by now.

He was lucky that Grissom came and saved him from that terrified woman with a gun. 

He was lucky that the glass  _ just  _ barely missed his neck, that the fall from the window didn’t injure him any more. He was lucky that Brass and his squad showed up when they did, lest Nick witness his house from becoming any more of a horrific crime scene.

He was lucky that he was given a fan. Funnily enough, he was even lucky that he shot the damn light, that the ants came pouring into the box, because if they didn’t, he would still be six feet under. He was lucky that Hodges  _ just happened  _ to call right before the lid was opened. He was lucky that Grissom’s plan worked, and that he was  _ above ground _ .

He was lucky that he was only shot in the shoulder, though one bullet was dangerously close to his heart. 

He was lucky that he had stood his ground where he did, that the van’s door didn’t hit him as an explosion sent shock waves through the air. 

But luck isn’t what Nick would use to describe the outcome of his survival against Veronica. She never intended for him to die, not really. He was her favorite toy, after all. She wasn’t going to give him up that easily. 

* * *

The sound of a cane woke Greg up from a standing slumber, two canes, two Doctors, accompanied by a third person that made Greg think he hadn’t woken up, and that he was still dreaming about a screaming man chained in a closet, who was oddly silent, though physically struggling.

“Ran into a friend downstairs,” Ray announced as he, Grissom and Doc Robbins all entered the room.

“Gil?” Sara asked, hopping up from her seat, though she didn’t let go of Nick’s hand. Grissom walked over, embraced his wife, planted a soft kiss on her cheek.

“Got the first flight that I could, but I can’t stay long. How is he?”

“Not...entirely sure, he hasn’t woken up yet,” Catherine said, walking over to plant her hand on Grissom’s shoulder. “I’m...gonna go call his parents.”

Grissom nodded, looked to Nick. He placed his hand on Sara’s on Nick’s. A feeling fluttered up Greg’s chest, hope. Grissom was here, so Nick would  _ definitely  _ be okay. 

“Any idea who…?” 

“No. House was registered to a ‘Gertrude Ortollins,’ we’ve got an APB on her now. Hey, Gil, good to see you,” Brass replied, entering the room. 

“Jim,” Grissom acknowledged, shaking Brass’ hand with his free one. 

“How’d it go with Marsh’s family?” 

“About as well as it did with Clark’s. How’s Nicky?” Brass asked, wiping his face with his hand.

“Still sleeping.” 

An exasperated sigh, laden with worry. 

“Sanders, you--you were at the house, what did you see, what happened?”

All eyes on Greg, and he felt a bead of sweat on his forehead. The details were, in fact, hazy, but he told them what he remembered anyway.

“Went to the house, found a bedroom, Nick was in the closet, and he was, uhm...heavily drugged--paralyzed, I guess--Something knocked me out, and when I woke up, there were darts on a bed and Nick was half-free. He kept saying ‘dig him up,’ and I-I thought maybe he was talking about…But he wasn’t and now we’re here.” 

“No sign of the person who knocked you out? Male or female?”

Brass grabbed Greg by the shoulders, shook him a little, drilled him into the ground with questions. He pulled a picture out from his pocket, a crime scene photo. 

“Do you recognize this? See it anywhere in the house?”

It was a picture of a body, dressed up in Nick’s vest, surrounded by evidence tags, markers, his kit, his gun. The man’s eyes were wide open, glazed over. A word, written in marker--”STOKES” with the “O” acting as a bulls-eye, a dart lodged right in the center.

“Take it easy, Jim, we’re all a bit worked up--”

“Zip it, Langston!” Brass snapped. Grissom and Sara tore away from Nick, sensed that the detective had reached a boiling point. 

“Ray, let’s go get some coffee,” Doc Robbins muttered, nudging Ray out of the room. 

The dust in the air settled, once Brass heaved another heavy sigh.

“I should...I should go apologize,” he muttered, and left the room. He left the picture on the floor, Greg picked it up and put it back on the bed.

Greg, Sara and Grissom were all left in isolation and silence, a trio that had not worked together for years, and yet, it felt like nothing had changed at all. A feeling of togetherness, in their silence, as they continued their watch over Nick Stokes, a man they all loved in different ways.

* * *

Birds. Birds were flying above him, chattering away, not a care in the world. No particular destination, just the air beneath their wings, a light feeling in their chests. Circling the air...or, were they circling him?

His body, sprawled on the ground, a bird who fell from the sky. He felt small, so small in comparison to the winged creatures above him, to the large shovel that was balancing his broken body. 

“Aw, you poor thing.” A voice cooed at him. A giant woman loomed above him, looked down on him. “I’m gonna keep you.”

The shovel propelled his body into the air, he was unable to move his limbs, fell haphazardly into the woman’s hand like a rag doll. She poked and prodded at him, stuck a needle into him. And then another. And another. Perhaps his body was somewhere else, feeling the pain she was inflicting on him. This body was nothing, just a lifeless toy.

“You’re mine,” the woman kept whispering to him, petting his chest with a single finger, applying particular pressure to his scars. All clothing was gone--he felt so naked, so embarrassed. 

She brought him into a house, the wallpapers were continuous streams of crime scene tape. The house was silent, except for the shuttering click of a camera. Camera flashes were the only source of light. 

“Oops!” 

His body rolled out of her hand, onto the ledge of a staircase. With the tip of her foot, she nudged his body forward, and he tumbled down a seemingly endless amount of stairs. He couldn’t feel the pain, as his limbs flailed around, as his head finally came to an impact with a clear, glass surface. The bottom of the stairs landed him into a box, a glass coffin...no, not into,  _ above _ . He landed on top of the body of Officer Marsh.

The sound of a phone ringing, a voice picking up. His voice, talking to Greg.

“Hey, man, sorry, I can’t make it to breakfast.”

“What? Why? What the hell is wrong with you, Nick? Then again, I figured as much, you’re such a shitty friend. Don’t even know why I even said yes when you asked me.”

He wanted to scream, tell Greg about the man in the box beneath him. To warn him, not to go looking for Nick. 

“You know, first you send Officer Clark to the back in that restaurant, and now you sent Marsh down a flight of stairs? Down to the ground, buried alive? Do you even remember what that  _ felt  _ like, Nick? How it felt to be struggling for air, struggling against six walls, just inches from your body, unable to move? He’ll die by asphyxiation, alright, but it’ll be post burial. Unlike you. You always survive, when the people that  _ should... _ don’t.”

Click. Flash. His body rose up, dangled by something tight around his wrists. 

“You’ve been a very bad doll,” the woman whispered to him. “It’s time for your punishment.”

He was carried to a dollhouse, an exact scale model of the house he was currently in--if he had a heart, it would have stopped, the miniature killer was back, was going to go after Sara again, or worse, maybe everyone again. 

But this woman wasn’t Natalie Davis, this was Veronica...a woman with no last name. Nothing to set her apart, nothing to identify her as anything other than Nick’s “owner.” He might as well get used to calling her that.

Discordant music was playing, some stupid song he would hate for the rest of his life, mixed with a song he once sang to himself, during an extended period of torture, to keep his sanity. A futile effort, now, his sanity flew away with the rest of the birds.

She split the house apart effortlessly, located in the bedroom, there was a closet, with an attachment for the chain that she was holding him by. She attached his body to it, closed the door, then closed the house. A large eye peeked into the window, watched him, for minutes...for hours...for days? Maybe even years. The eye left, a camera lens took its place. 

Then, it began to rain.

Tiny birds flew like darts against the window, he could just barely see corpses smash against the window and slide down. 

And then, one big corpse hit against the window, dead center. Bulls-eye. It wasn’t a bird, it was Greg Sanders. 

“Another broken toy, ready to be buried.”

He wanted to scream, he didn’t care what happened to him, his life was meaningless, he served no purpose other than to please Veronica, none of that  _ really  _ mattered, so long as Greg was safe.

“Dig him up!” he cried out, pleading, the puppet finally had a voice. 

“Nicky?” 

“DIG HIM UP!” at the top of his lungs, all energy expelled from his body, but a shock brought him back to life, as he opened his eyes and saw Gil Grissom sitting next to him.

* * *

Nick had woken up unceremoniously, his eyes had fluttered open, just as Greg thought they would. They all encouraged a charming smile to spread onto his face by showing them their own, it worked, his eyes lit up and his lips spread apart, curving slightly upward.

“Greg,” he croaked. “Sorry I...missed breakfast.”

“It’s okay, call it a rain check.”

He groaned, twisted his body a little. 

“What...What happened? How long have I been out?" he added, after seeing Grissom next to him.

Greg’s mouth gaped open in shock, he had not expected those words, out of someone who seemed to be in a conscious state of mind at the scene of the crime.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Sara asked.

“I...I was at a crime scene? I turned around, and...woke up here,”

Greg held up the picture.

“You don’t know anything about this?”

Nick stared at the picture for a moment, a puzzled expression on his face, his brows furrowed down, a glimmer of something shone in his eyes.

“Nuh...No.”

Grissom had been staring intently at Nick the whole time, his head cocked to one side. 

“Greg, Sara...could you give us a minute?” 

_ Maybe this is all a bit overwhelming… _

Greg and Sara nodded, left the room in a mutual agreement that Grissom would get the answers. A mostly impartial third party, who hadn’t been there, for the past two years.

Greg was hopeful again, that maybe Nick was just hazy from the sedation, that Grissom would be able to talk to him, get at least  _ some  _ of the story while it was still fresh in Nick’s head. They gave the pair their privacy, Grissom had closed the blinds after they had left the room. Catherine rejoined them, Sara filled her in on what happened. Catherine knocked on the door, but didn’t enter. 

Grissom came out, almost an hour later, with reddened eyes, immediately embraced Sara.

“Well? What did he say?” Catherine asked, peering into the room through the crack in the door.

Grissom looked up at her, a solemn expression on his face, as he held onto Sara’s hand. 

“He doesn’t remember anything.”


	7. One Way Or Another

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A struggle for the return to normalcy, and then the robbery of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for mentions of sexual abuse

The first case back was always rough, no matter who it was, no matter what terrible experience they had just endured. Remnants of physical injuries, bandages, casts, pain killers accompanied the weary CSIs as they struggled to return to normalcy. There was always this lightness in the air, euphoria that the CSI returned, but also this odd sort of tension, that they might just snap or freak out at any given time.

Nick had always seemed to bounce back quickly, though. Perhaps it was his amnesia over his most recent kidnapping (the fact that phrase implies multiple kidnappings tugs at something in Greg’s heart), but one would think that nothing had happened to him at all, that he had just had a long vacation and returned back to work. Even when Grissom had stuck him in the lab, under watchful eyes after both the stalker and Gordon incident, Nick didn’t seem too strung up about it, took it in stride.

Then again, he always did seem to overcompensate when it came to pleasing Grissom.

Catherine, however, let Nick return to the field on his first case back from the Jekyll case--although that might have been caused by the short-handedness on grave at the time. She let him work the funeral scene, even though he himself was a victim of the explosion that caused it. And she let him come work this triple homicide with herself and Greg, his first night back after his most recent brush with death.

Nick and Greg had driven to the scene together, Catherine had already performed a preliminary walk-through, taken notes on the scene. 

“Okay, boys, let’s divide and conquer. Greg, you take the upstairs bedrooms, Nicky and I will stay down here.”

Though Catherine let him back into the field so soon, she definitely kept him on a short leash.

“Copy that,” Greg nodded, flashing a quick look to Nick, whose eyes seemed to linger on the staircase.

One of the three victims had been discovered upstairs, in a closet--perhaps they had tried to hide from the killer. Or maybe they were forced in, there were scratch marks on the inside of the door.

_ No wonder Catherine wanted me up here instead of Nick. _

But Nick didn’t remember the closet anyway, maybe he would have been fine.

Greg began to document the closet, the lifeless body of the unfortunate victim morphing into Nick’s. 

Click. Flash.

Maybe Catherine didn’t want to take the risk, that this would somehow trigger something within Nick causing him to remember the horror that Greg saw in another closet, in another house.

But on the other hand, maybe Nick remembering what had happened would lead them closer to finding the body in the picture, to finding Marsh’s killer, to finding who knocked out Greg...to finding the monster who broke Nick so much he didn’t even remember it. 

_ “Maybe if we counted up all the damn ‘maybes,’ Maybe Nick would be alive!” _

An old friend, reminding him, to reign in his focus. 

Some time later, Greg finished processing the second level, was halfway down the stairs when Nick had said his first words since their car ride.

“Why’d you take a picture of that?” Nick asked Catherine, Greg could just barely see him--he was holding a snow globe, the glass was smudged with blood. A question that Nick wouldn’t normally ask, he’s far too experienced, the first sign that maybe he wasn’t as okay as he made it out to seem.

“Gotta document the scene, Nicky,” Catherine reminded him, in a casual tone, but something about it seemed to strike a chord in Nick.

All noise seemed to stop, the hustle of officers and technicians gathering evidence froze at the sound of glass shattering to the floor. Greg nearly fell down the stairs, as he ran down, to try and help--Catherine had already pushed Nick back, away from the glass. His body was rigid, his breathing fast and heavy. Hushed words, that Greg couldn’t make out, whispered into Nick’s ear as Catherine held his chest, steered his line of sight towards her.

“Then he  _ what _ _?”_   Sara asked Greg, hours later, as they sat in the break room and Greg recounted the incident. 

“He yelled at Catherine, almost screamed that he was okay, and stormed off into another room. Didn’t see him after that. Catherine had me ride back with David and the bodies.”

“That’s...not like him.”

“No.”

They sat in silence, staring at the uneaten food in front of them.

“He was pretty quiet in the car on the way to the scene, too. Hasn’t really been that, uh...open, not that he normally is,” Greg quickly added, echoes of a threat to stay out of Nick’s private life flashed like a warning sign in his mind.

“Do you think he was...triggered by something?”

“Maybe? Catherine kept him away from the, uh...what I think would have done it.” 

“Done what?” 

Greg nearly jumped out of his seat, Nick walked into the room, heading straight to the refrigerator, as he always does. 

“Uh, we were just…” Greg stammered anxiously, praying that Nick hadn’t heard him. 

“Catherine kept Ray from the stabbing case last week,” Sara covered. “Figured it would bring up bad memories, you know?”

She was baiting him, to enter the discussion of triggers, a probe to see what might have caused Nick’s outburst. Greg felt terrible, talking about the man behind his back, but he had only done so out of concern. Maybe Sara’s bait would lead them to a more inclusive conversation.

“Yeah, I get that. I know she’s also keeping me off of solos for a while, nothing personal. She just cares, you know?” Nick chimed in. “She’s like the mother hen of our little family.”

Greg raised his eyebrows, Nick seemed oddly...cheery? Whatever anger he had directed at Catherine was seemingly gone.

“Yeah, guess she is,” Sara smiled at him. A smile spread across Nick’s face, and they all began to eat and talk, as if nothing had happened. Nick had even made a joke about the incident at the scene, remarked at his sudden case of “butterfingers” as he had also dropped his fork on the floor multiple times. 

Perhaps Greg underestimated Nick, perhaps he was doing better than they all thought. 

But then again, Greg had also not seen Nick’s trembling hands. 

* * *

He was used to the nightmares. The restless nights of tossing and turning, unable to shut his eyes without shrill giggles waking him up. Distorted, horrific visions melted into his brain, of himself in the utmost agony, of people he loved being hurt because of him. Insomnia was nothing new to him, although the waking nightmares induced by sleep paralysis did catch him off guard, at first. Night terrors amplified by the sensation of being unable to move, hardly able to  _ breathe. _ He doesn’t even wake up in a panic anymore, but rather, with a sigh of relief, that  _ it was just a dream _ . 

He would use any excess adrenaline from those nights for a run, no matter what time of day it was when he decided to call it quits on sleeping. The exercise helped him, anyway. Healthy body, healthy mind. Maybe he wasn’t working hard enough.

He was used to the eggshells strewn around him, people treading carefully when they speak to him. Everybody was so cautious on what they said to Nick, how they greeted him. People always seemed to treat him better, in those first few days returning back from hell. He tried to keep up appearances, cracking smiles and making jokes. His jokes  _ always  _ got a laugh, even if they were bad. 

He was used to the mandatory therapy sessions, at this point. He knew what to say and how to act, in order to get through the hour and act like everything was okay, even if it truly wasn’t. Truth be told, it wasn’t that he wasn’t open to discussion over the events that brought him to the sessions, it was that he was expected to share that information with  _ complete strangers _ . 

He had told Grissom, many times over many years, that therapy just didn’t help. Grissom never bothered him about it, never pestered him. Just asked Nick to complete the sessions, for paperwork. He extended the hand, for Nick to seek help in other ways, either on a nature hike or a roller coaster ride.

But then Grissom left, and Catherine implored that he met with this latest therapist, first for the restaurant shooting and explosion, and now for latest disappearance. 

“How can I talk about it, if I don’t  _ remember _ _?”_ Nick had argued, when she confronted him over the incident at the house.

“Sometimes...sometimes even if you don’t  _ remember  _ it, remnants of it show through your actions, Nicky. Maybe if you talk it out with someone, it’ll become clearer, maybe it’ll come back to you, and you’ll be able to cope with it,  _ properly.”  _

It hurt him, but not because her words stung, implying that he wasn’t dealing with his past traumas properly--he thought he was doing okay, at that. He was eating right, working out, doing his best to get  _ some  _ sleep. He wasn’t freaking out every time he saw something that reminded him of the barrel of a gun (he was used to staring down that long, endless tunnel, anyway), every time he saw ants on the ground, every time he heard a gunshot or explosion. He wouldn’t be able to do his job, otherwise.

What hurt him, was the lie he had told Catherine. Not just Catherine, even, but  _ everyone.  _ Everyone except two people, who he had told at two separate times, in a hospital room, in a therapist's office.

“What do you remember?” Grissom’s voice asked softly, clutching Nick’s hand, which was suddenly cold, trembling. He was uncharacteristically comforting, perhaps it was his time spent away from the lab, away from the horror that he was once desensitized to. 

“Not...much.” Nick gulped, he averted his eyes away from the man’s gaze, focused on the tiles of the floor. If he pretended he didn’t remember, then maybe he wouldn’t.

“Look at this picture, tell me what you see,” the therapist, Omar Varsden prompted Nick.

It was a picture of a dead man, sprawled out, dressed in a CSI vest, surrounded by evidence tags and Nick’s possessions that were taken from him. His gear, for investigating crime scenes. The corpse had marker painted on his head, spelling out Nick’s last name--a dart was dead-center embedded in the middle of the “O,” presumably it was the cause of death.

The man looked like Greg.

“Greg Sanders,” Nick had choked out. He was unable to hide that pain, no matter how hard he tried.

“That’s not him, Greg’s just outside,” Grissom told him, setting the photo down. He looked Nick in the eyes. “He was at the house, with you, but you knew that already, didn’t you?”

“CSI Sanders was there that night, wasn’t he?” Omar asked, setting the photo aside.

Nick nodded, wiped away a tear that was daring to escape his eye. 

“We’ve known each other for a long time, Nicky, it’s okay. Whatever happened, you can tell me, and it will stay  _ just between us _ . This isn’t some sort of debrief, this is...two friends, just talking to each other,” Grissom spoke--almost whispered to Nick. Nick felt all sorts of emotions; shock, pleasure, confusion...Grissom was never this...human. But that was a lie too, the man had shown a more vulnerable side to Nick, since his first kidnapping over five years ago.

“We’ve had quite a few sessions, Nick, and while we haven’t gotten to know each other  _ too  _ well yet, I sense that there’s more to the story than you’re letting on...Whatever happened, whatever you tell me, I must reiterate,  _ will stay in this room,”  _ Omar offered, nearly pleaded that Nick open up, for once, since they had started talking to each other on a weekly basis over a month ago. 

_ What the hell do I have to lose, at this point _ ?

“Whatever happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas, huh?” Nick remarked, cracking a half smile, an attempt to cut through the odd sense of tension in the air, caught in his own web of lies and repression.

Both men had laughed at that, unable to resist Nick’s humorous charm.

He told them all he remembered, even told them her name, but he knew that even if he did officially tell anybody what happened, it wouldn’t help. He had remembered most of the details, of what was done to him, but he couldn’t quite remember what Veronica’s face looked like--outside of her piercing green eyes, her bright, vibrant lips spread into a wide smile. He remembered feelings and emotions, of helplessness and impotence. He couldn’t quite remember what the house he was taken too looked like, all he remembered seeing was the dead bird, sprawled on the ground, the image of which had turned to Greg, to him during his recollection. He couldn’t quite remember the appearance of the jogger that had nearly come to his aid, if he had been able to call for it, the image of which had turned to the various members of the team, running away from him when he needed them most...an image which reminded him of Warrick, stepping out of a hole in the ground, which sent him into a burst of hysterics.

Grissom had hugged him, in that moment, began to cry with him, at the mention of Warrick Brown. A bond, forged over the years through teaching, through mistakes, through near misses, through the death of a loved one. Nick felt strengthened, felt all the love that had he thought was gone from him, that Veronica had taken from him. 

Omar had done nothing, sat back and just let Nick cry it out. Nick hugged himself, curled up on the couch, clutching the pillow, buried his face into it. He felt so embarrassed, wanted to stop crying, but he couldn’t. He felt like a little kid, crying for his mother and he felt  _ weak _ . Omar was treating him with the same coldness that Veronica had treated him with, no offering of comfort, just... _ observation. _ He felt like he was under a microscope--as if he needed a reminder of how  _ small  _ Veronica had made him feel.

“Wh-Why me?” he choked out, when he found his voice again. “Why is it  _ always me?” _

Grissom was at a loss for words, somehow it was just as hard to tell Nick that this time, it was, in fact,  _ about him,  _ versus being a random target of Walter Gordon’s wrath. 

“You said it yourself, she wanted to keep you. Like a trophy, perhaps,” Omar suggested, he was barely even paying attention to Nick, he was scribbling down as many notes as possible. 

“Atrophy?” Nick melted the words together in a single huff of breath. He took a deep breath, then another, and another until the crying had stopped, though the headache would remain for hours to come.

“Psychopaths view love as some sort of...ownership. She saw you, fell ‘in love,’ and decided that you were hers, to do with whatever she pleases.” Grissom explained. Ah, there it was. The naive bluntness Nick was used to hearing from his mentor. At least he didn’t sugarcoat it.

“She wanted you, more than anything. Was infatuated by you. Did she attempt any sexual advances?” Omar prodded. This raw emotion was more than he had gotten out of Nick, might as well milk it for all its worth while he still could.

“No,” Nick vehemently retorted. “She didn’t...try anything, if that’s what you’re implying.”

_ It’s not what you think _ , a sing-song voice, rang through his head.

“I wasn’t,” Grissom whispered. “The evidence we do have...didn’t suggest that. But if she or...anybody else, did--”

He tore his hand away from Grissom’s rolled over on the side of the bed. 

“But, it has happened to you before, hasn’t it, Nick?” Omar asked, his eyes wide with...concern? Curiosity? Perhaps even pleasure, that he had gotten this far into Nick’s head?

He stood up from the couch, headed towards the door, his hand twisted the knob.

His shoulders felt heavy, weighed down by everything that had happened to him. It would always come back to  _ that.  _

“--I’m here for you, Nicky. We all are. Whenever you’re ready to talk.” Grissom squeezed his shoulder, some of the weight seemed to evaporate, and Nick just nodded back to him.

“We can talk about that during our next session, I’m afraid our time is up.” Omar called out to him, but Nick was already halfway out the door. 

_ Joke’s on you, asshole. Mandatory sessions are over.  _

Two weeks later, things had finally returned to normal. The nightmares were waning, though his morning jogs were longer, more intense, but more rewarding. Nick was able to clock in, clock out, do his job, talk to his friends, without the feeling that they were all tip-toeing around things that they didn’t  _ really _ want to talk about. He didn’t feel like a burden, slowing down the rest of the team, no more outbursts at words that reminded him of  _ that  _ night. He had even been able to bargain with Catherine, to let him work a scene on his own.

More than just feeling normal, he felt like  _ himself  _ again, instead of a possession. 

He was just returning from the scene, had dropped off all his evidence, was about to head home when he saw a package left on his desk. No return address, the first sign that something was wrong. 

“Judy, did you see who delivered this?” Nick asked sharply, to the poor, startled receptionist as Nick had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. 

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Stokes, I had just returned from the bathroom when I saw it on the counter. I can have somebody pull the security footage--”

Nick headed towards Catherine’s office, she was packing up, but not to leave for the night.

“Not now, Nicky, sorry, I have to run, just got a call-out.”

“You need help?” Nick’s anxiety dropped for a moment, but spiked back up as Catherine didn’t meet his eyes and brushed past him instead.    


“No, go home,” she ordered, taking out her phone and calling somebody as she nearly ran to the car garage. 

He headed towards the break room, towards Greg and Sara, who looked at their phones, then each other, then got up and left without a word. Nick caught a flash of Greg’s widened eyes, which found his, his mouth gaped open as if to say something, but then Sara steered him away.

Nick furrowed his eyebrows and headed to the nearest workstation, to dust the package for prints and open it carefully. The suspense of what was inside was bringing him to a boil.

No return address, no prints, no trace on the package itself, nor its contents: a flash drive, and a cassette tape, inscribed with a handwritten label, “One Way Or Another.”

Nick brought the contents to the A/V Lab, which he was the sole occupant of. Archie must have left for the night, he vaguely remembers hearing that the day shift tech was out on maternity leave. 

He put the tape in the cassette player, and pressed play.

A song that shared the title of the label began to play, Nick recognized the tune, but it took him a minute to recognize the  _ voice _ . 

“ I'm gonna get ya, get ya, get ya, get ya…” Veronica’s voice sang through the garbled speaker. The low quality of the recording somehow made it even more terrifying.

He felt sickened, gulped down whatever was rising in his throat, and plugged the flash drive in. A folder popped up, filled with pictures, and one folder. Pictures Nick recognized as his pictures from the crime scene, before he and Marsh had been assaulted, though there were a few shots in there, of Marsh, of the body that  _ was not Greg _ and other objects, that he doesn’t recall taking. 

He didn’t pay those pictures too much attention, his eyes focused on the folder, which was labeled as “Memories.”

Nick’s heart stopped, the song got louder, so loud he thought his ears might have bled out. He had a gut feeling, that he  _ knew  _ what the pictures were, that if he opened the folder, all sense of normalcy, all sense of self would vanish. The so called “Memories”--a title he knew was some sort of twisted offer of bonding over what had happened that night, would be fresh in his head, the nightmares would start again, Catherine would send him back to therapy because  _ how the hell could a person be normal after seeing that? _

The song seemed to stutter, then stop. All sound, seemed to stop. Time seemed to stop, he was caught between a short, sharp inhale and a long, deep exhale. 

_ “Go ahead, open your present, Nicky _ …” Veronica’s voice called out to him.

He clicked the folder open, and the song resumed. Seven pictures, labeled with numbers, he found himself in an almost hypnotic state as he opened the first one, two bodies tangled together on the landing of a set of stairs. One man was just barely alive, bleeding from his forehead. The other man had  _ just  _ made eye contact with the camera...that man, was Nick.

The second picture, was Nick in the trunk, based on the carpeting above his hair. The picture was zoomed in on his head, which was on a platter--he could just barely see the shovel that held his head up. His eyes were wide, his expression frozen in horror. 

In the next picture, he was sprawled out on a couch, vomit stained on his chin and shirt. His head was tilted back, but his eyes were looking downward. 

Next picture, still on the couch, but now his shirt was off, exposing his chest, two dots and a line connecting across his pectoral region. He felt a sudden twinge of pain as he studied the trickle of blood sliding from the two dots.

The next picture, and he was chained in a closet, determination in his eyes. Sure, he was being “punished” but he wasn’t going to give in. Not yet. 

Not until the next picture, which showed the blur of a man’s hand, falling near his waist. Nick was looking down in horror, his face drenched in sweat and tears.

The final picture, the final horror. Nick barely even registered what was now displayed on all of the screens in the lab, as the song continued on and on and on in his head, as he threw the door open so hard and fast that the glass of the door and the nearest wall nearly shattered.

“Hey, Nick, did you hear? They found your missing vest--” Hodges began, sauntering towards Nick, but Nick nearly knocked the poor lab rat down as he whizzed past him like a speeding bullet. He kept running, and didn’t stop until he got to the parking garage, where he got into his car, dug out his phone from his pocket, and sent a single worded text to Greg.

_ Where? _

He barely remembers how he had gotten to the scene, he had sped his way there, using his flashers. The whole team was gathered around a body, Nick brushed between Ray and Sara, Catherine didn’t even bother asking how he got there. 

His knees buckled, the picture he was shown in the hospital, by the therapist, had come to life, with one major difference. Blood, sourced from a wound that was not immediately noticeable on the victim’s chest, painted on the wall above him. A single word, that he heard as clear as day.

“MINE.”

He stumbled backward, the song  _ was still going  _ in his head. Brass rushed over, grabbed his shoulder, preventing him from falling down, but he shrugged the detective’s grip off. Catherine was on the phone, presumably with Hodges, but Nick didn’t stick around to hear the punchline. 

He turned away from the scene, from the team, began to run again, to nowhere in particular, at least, no destination consciously known to him.

It was a dream, it had to be a dream, there was no way in hell this could all be happening in reality. His worst fear come to life, all of his suffering, broadcasted on every screen in the lab. Greg’s body--no,  _ it wasn’t Greg, Nick _ \--with the reminder that he belonged to Veronica, on display for everyone to see. 

He stopped running as he nearly ran into the front door of his house. He fumbled with the lock. The song was climbing, creeping up behind him, a shiver slid up his spine, making him twitch as Veronica’s voice kept singing and giggling and whispering…

He entered the house, slammed the door shut. The song stopped. He was safe.

He blinked, and he was in front of his bathroom mirror, drenched in sweat, panting. A final echo of a shrill giggle made him fall forward, he gripped the edges of the counter. 

He stared into the eyes of his reflection, widened, tearful, terrified eyes. Paralyzed in paranoia, that he wasn’t  _ actually  _ safe. This wasn’t him, this was Veronica’s  _ plaything. _

He removed a shaking hand, keeping eye contact with the man in the mirror as he reached for his razor. A couple minutes later, and his hair was gone. 

He took a deep breath, brushing away the tears in his eyes, the excess hair off of his head, and when he opened his eyes, he stared into the reflection of a man with narrowed, determined, brave eyes.

This was him, this was Nick Stokes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S DONE. I want to extend a huge thank you to all of those who let me bounce ideas, share previews, and have read this entire fic and showed your support! 
> 
> Also...Veronica will return...in a sequel I had planned before I even wrote this fic.
> 
> UPDATE: sequel is here! [Agony](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21031574/chapters/50023118)


	8. Extras

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Link to the playlist and a moodboard I made for the fic!

Here is the [**playlist**](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6Y4alqgJcV7TztpxfZjc1o?si=dWnWuDqJTYWYsLqRpSMVIw) I made during the writing of this fic!

The moodboard I made on my [tumblr](https://panchostokes.tumblr.com/):


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